


Reaper's First Christmas

by tommygirl



Category: Dead Like Me
Genre: Gen, Yuletide, Yuletide 2004
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-28
Updated: 2011-04-28
Packaged: 2017-10-18 18:45:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/192048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tommygirl/pseuds/tommygirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Georgia Lass has never been a fan of Christmas and that feeling hasn't changed since she died.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reaper's First Christmas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LittleSammy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleSammy/gifts).



I’ve never been very fond of Christmas. Maybe it stems from the fact that my parents thought lying to their child was wrong and told me there was no Santa at a very young age. Maybe it’s because I’m dead and embracing the holiday spirit seems wrong. Or maybe it’s just that the holidays have always and will always suck.

When you think about it, it’s nothing more than a day that used to be about the birth of the ultimate hippie which has since gotten so commercialized that Hallmark is considering making a series of “Because I had to spend five bucks on you” cards. All the holiday aims to do is force people to spend money that they don’t have to prove that they are loved and love other people. So much for the whole “joy to the world” and “peace to all” spiels. Christmas is about as peaceful as an Eminem concert.

“Always so cynical, Georgia,” Daisy stated as she sipped her coffee.

I stared down at my waffle holiday “surprise” (the Waffle Haus’ idea of spontaneity) and replied, “I’m fucking dead, Daisy. I think that entitles me to a bit of cynicism.”

“Bad day, peanut?” Rube questioned as he sat down. He gave me that look, the one that said he didn’t really want to hear anything beyond, “Not really.”

I shrugged, but before I could reply, Daisy said, “Our little Georgia is the grim reaper equivalent of George Bailey in need of the Christmas spirit...” Daisy’s voice trailed off for a second. She got a far off glint in her eye and smiled as she added, “Frank Capra once told me I was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.”

I rolled my eyes and said, “Holiday spirit my ass. The holidays revolve around a creepy, rosey-cheeked fat freak who asks children to sit on his lap all the time and spends most of the year locked away in an icicle palace surrounded by childlike elves. And we’re encouraging that sort of behavior?”

Daisy sighed, “All I want to do is have Mason hang some lights along the house.”

“Not just lights. Red and green lights. That blink. _All night long_.”

“Can you take this conversation elsewhere? I want to enjoy my bacon and eggs this morning,” Rube stated. He moved over without even looking up as both Mason and Roxy entered the Waffle Haus, yelling at one another.

I pointed at the two of them and smirked at Daisy, “It seems I’m not the only one lacking the holiday spirit.”

Mason shrugged and explained as he sat down, “Roxy is mad at me because I caught her making googly eyes at some fella she was busting.”

“If you say that one more time, I’m going to shoot your fucking arm off,” Roxy snapped before sliding into the booth. She nodded in my direction and said, “Can someone do something with him?”

I wasn’t sure when Mason became my problem, but it seemed to be the general consensus amongst the group. Not that I minded exactly – Mason was almost endearing in his half-witted buffoonery.

Daisy’s face perked up and she began, “I can. I have lights that—“

“No, you don’t. No lights. No oversized Santas or dead trees withering away in our living room!” I glared at her and tried to ignore the looks from the others. I wasn’t sure what Daisy’s big deal with Christmas was. It probably involved her and some famous actor in deviant acts that I’d rather not know about.

“Aw Georgie, what you need is some of my infamous egg nog and then you’ll be feeling the holiday spirit.”

“It sounds like what she needs is a kick in the ass,” Roxy commented.

“And chances are you won’t be feeling anything if Mason’s making the egg nog,” Rube glanced at Mason and asked, “What is it? Nine parts Vodka and one part egg nog?”

Mason waved him off and said, “Forget them, George. I promise you. Once you taste my eggnog, you’ll be singing Christmas carols and dancing on the tables.”

“Oh yay,” I replied. I pushed my plate aside and said, “I need to get to work and endure more of this holiday cheer bullshit. Yesterday I was pretty sure Lenny from Accounting copped a feel while spreading peace and joy as an elf.”

“Go Lenny,” Mason muttered. I hit him in the stomach and he groaned, “No need for violence.”

I rolled my eyes and glanced at Rube, “Post-it?”

Rube opened his book and passed the post-its around the table before adding, “Now all of you get out of here. You’re ruining my cheery holiday disposition.”

“See, even Rube has gotten into the holiday spirit,” Daisy pointed out as she nudged me to exit the booth.

I stared at my post-it and groaned. I was being sent to the inner sanctum of hell for this reap…the mall. The mall was overrun with soccer moms and bratty children on a good day, but the holiday season seemed to bring out the masses in large quantities. For the record, I _hated_ the masses. Daisy wondered why I disliked the holidays so much. She should try to battle the obnoxious people in stores fighting over a stuffed doll and then we’d talk about the wonders of the holiday.

Mason rested his head on my shoulder, peering at my post-it, “My ETD is right before yours at the mall. We can go together.”

“Meaning you need a ride.”

“No, Georgie. I _want_ a ride. I don’t need a ride.”

“Whatever,” I replied. I crumpled up the post-it and put it in my coat pocket. I looked at Mason’s watch. “Meet me at Happy Time at one.” I focused on Roxy and Rube who were still seated in the booth. “If I didn’t know better, I would think you purposely assigned me to a death at the mall during the holidays.”

“’Tis the season, Georgia,” Daisy said, patting my arm as she headed to the door. She turned and looked back at me, stating, “And if, by chance, your reap just purchased a lot of jewelry, bring it to me.”

“That’s the holiday spirit,” Rube commented. He met my annoyed gaze and shrugged. Sometimes I wanted to rip his head off when he shrugged at me with his do-I-give-a-shit posture. He sighed. “I don’t make the assignments, peanut. I just pass them out.”

I rolled my eyes and walked off. I heard Rube call out, “Bye Scrooge.”

**

The people in my office were always a bit _off_ in comparison to the rest of the world. I had to put up with friendly conversations around the water cooler and bonding sessions (in certain cases, fondling too), parties for every occasion, and general merriment on a daily basis throughout the year. It apparently had nothing on what the holidays brought out in the office. Who knew it was possible for the people I worked with to get more insane? But there came the holidays with the promise of Santa, broken resolutions, and lots of end of year reports, and suddenly I was working at the Stepford Office.

Each department competed in “aren’t we the most spirited” decoration contests, much of the staff took to wearing santa hats in the office, and, the pieste de resistance, the christmas carols. The non-stop infliction of “Silent Night” and “Silver Bells” played on a loop throughout the day.

“Has someone got a case of the holiday grumps?” Dolores asked as she passed my desk as I drew over the face of Old Saint Nick.

I shrugged and said, “It’s not my thing.”

Dolores shook her head and replied, “Millie, you’re a bright girl with a wonderful future ahead of you. I’d hate to see you turn into this mean old miser.”

With that she walked off, leaving me to my doodling and continued vigilance against holiday cheer invading my cubicle. By the time Mason arrived at my office, I’d had it up to there with “Jingle Bells” and was ready to tell Frosty where he could stick his eyes made out of coal. It didn’t help that everyone kept giving me those pitiable looks, like I was the problem.

“Ready to hit the mall, Georgie?” Mason asked as he weaved his way through my coworkers to my desk. He picked up a pencil and started to twirl it in his palm. “Very festive in here.”

“It looks like Santa’s elves threw up,” I countered. I shut down my computer, grabbed my jacket and said, “This wasn’t how I hoped to spend my lunch break today. I hate the mall.”

“I’m quite fond of it myself. Lots of beautiful, lonely women roaming the stores and people in such a rush that they don’t notice when a few dollars happen to disappear from their wallets.”

“Let’s try to keep the petty larceny to a minimum this afternoon, okay?”

**

The mall was as jampacked with cretins, shoppers, and crying children as I expected. It didn’t help that Mason and I managed to narrow our ETD information down to the Santa’s Caravan area. Bratty children with Christmas lists waiting in a long line for a sad looking Santa – _wonderful_. We studied the layout of the area, taking bets on how our two people were going to bite it. I allowed Mason to do the recon work while I sat on a bench, pretending not to notice the strange little girl sitting next to me who kept staring in my direction.

“You here to see Santa?”

“Don’t you know you shouldn’t talk to strangers?” I asked.

The child shrugged and replied, “I was just wondering. You look too old to visit Santa.”

“I’m waiting for a friend.”

“Oh…” the young girl paused and then said, “This isn’t the real Santa, you know? The real Santa is busy at the North Pole so he sends out his friends to help him.”

“Sure.”

“At least that’s what my mother says,” the little girl replied. She glanced at me and leaned in close as if to impart great wisdom to me. Her voice took on a conspiratorial whisper, “I’m not so sure there’s a Santa anymore.”

I wasn’t sure what to say. When I was alive, there was nothing I enjoyed more than disillusioning people of their beliefs. One year, I made Becky Johnson cry when I preached with faux certainty that there was no God and therefore her pet turtle wasn’t waiting for her in heaven. Being the reassuring voice, the person who refused to let someone give up on their dreams, was never my forte.

“I’m sure your mother wouldn’t lie to you,” I forced out. So I lied. Did you think I wanted to be the one to dick over a child?

“I guess not.”

“Where’s your mother?”

“In line with my little sister.”

“Why aren’t you in line with them?”

“I sent my letter to Santa. To the _real_ Santa,” she replied as if it was the most obvious answer.

I liked this kid. She reminded me of myself when I was little – whether that was good or bad, I didn’t know – and I wanted to protect the holidays for her. It was a new thing for me, this weird, buried side of my personality that gave a shit about someone else and their feelings, and I almost found myself willing to sing Christmas carols if it would put a smile on that little girl’s face.

Almost.

I was still me after all.

I still had a job to do which involved death and probably gore…that this kid was going to witness.

Mason approached, garnering a suspicious look from the young girl, and said, “Georgie, I’ve found yours. It’s the elf over there on the left.”

“An elf?”

“Yeah, the one on the right.”

I glanced at the guy. I’d like anyone overwhelmed with the holiday spirit to think of that poor schmuck in the elf costume who was going to die and the last thing he’d see was a big fat fake Santa. I looked down at my watch and said, “Two minutes left. Any idea on yours?”

“No...I couldn’t find an R. Morgan anywhere.”

The little girl glanced at him again and said, “I’m a Morgan.”

Shit.

Mason met my annoyed gaze and said, “And what’s your first name?”

She crossed her arms and asked, “What’s yours?”

“I’m Mason. This is Georgia. And you are?”

“Rebecca.”

Shit, shit, shit. A little girl? At Santa’s workshop? Sometimes I thought God or whatever higher power was in charge was a real asshole. This little girl hadn’t done anything wrong, _I_ hadn’t done anything wrong...so why was I dead and this little girl about to join me?

I stood up and walked off. I knew it wasn’t the bravest thing to do or nicest for that matter. This little girl was about to die – there would be no Santa Claus or overabundance of gifts under her tree this year – and I was leaving her to Mason’s less-than-tactful approach to reaping.

But I never claimed to be either brave or nice. Not during the eighteen years I was alive and certainly not in the time since my demise. I was Georgia Lass after all, girl who didn’t give a shit. Why start then?

I made my way up to the small platform. My reap turned to face me, a frazzled expression worn into his face, and said, “You need to wait your turn for Santa.”

“Sorry,” I mumbled, pretending to fall into him and running my hand along his arm.

He looked down at his arm, then to me, and stated, “The line’s over there, lady.”

I nodded and moved away. I noticed a graveling out of the corner of my eye, laughing as it pulled at one of the lighting fixtures above the makeshift set. I stepped back, wanting to avoid any impalements during my reap, and waited for the next few seconds to pass.

I focused my eyes away from the elf man to where Rebecca and I had been sitting. Only she wasn’t there anymore. She had moved to the other side of the line, probably waiting for her sister to finish blathering on about the Barbie dreamhouse she wanted. I forced my eyes away from her, hurrying over to where Mason was standing, as I heard the loud, cracking noise of the light toppling down.

It was the first light fixture that took out my guy. Landed on him like a bullseye had been taped to the top of his head. It was during the rush of the mob to get away from the second falling piece, that the little girl was trampled by two men and then hit with pieces of glass.

Amidst the screams and the chaos, I watched as Rebecca stared down at her old body. Mason started to walk over to Rebecca, but I stopped him. I felt like I owed her something – why I wasn’t sure – and said, “Let me.”

“Are you sure?”

“Deal with the elf guy for me, okay?”

Mason nodded and started to walk off. He stopped abruptly and asked, “Are you going to be okay?”

I nodded. I wasn’t sure that I was. I wasn’t sure that any of us would be okay for that matter. But there was no use attempting to make sense of that right then. I forced a small smile and said, “All part of the job, right?”

He nodded and disappeared behind the remains of Santa’s Lair. I focused on the little girl and extended my hand. “I’m going to help you.”

“I knew he wasn’t really Santa.”

I smiled. “I’m sure you’ll find the real Santa where you’re going. Are you ready?”

She took my hand in hers and replied, “Do you think he’ll let me see all of the North Pole? Do you think it looks like it does in the movies?”

I had no idea what was on the other side – it seemed to differ for each person I reaped thus far – but I wanted to believe that “Jingle Bells” blasted throughout the place, reindeer roamed free, and little girls were allowed to spend large amounts of time in Santa’s castle.

Even a Grinch like me, Georgia Lass, could hope for that…right?

I walked her to the edge of the mall where a group of lights started to form into a setting. I smiled reassuringly at Rebecca and said, “You’re going to be fine.” I didn’t know if that would hold true, but for the first time, I honestly thought maybe it would.

 _{Fin}_

**Author's Note:**

> This was a hard story to write at first, but I did my best to bring the snark like Georgia would. It does get a tad depressing at the end, but hopefully it works for the story. Much love to plumsnickety, iamtheenemy, sdlucly, and opmk for all the beta help with this story, making sure that characters were right on target and grammar wasn't atrocious.


End file.
